


Nothing Is Random

by Captain_Rachel



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005), DCU, DCU (Movies), Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Rachel/pseuds/Captain_Rachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce Wayne comes back from the dead the Daily Planet sends Clark Kent to cover the story. On what is supposed to be his last night in Gotham Clark manages to (litterally) run into Bruce Wayne and discovers that Gotham has a new hero--one whom the press starts calling "Batman".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ничто не случайно](https://archiveofourown.org/works/780487) by [arisu_aiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisu_aiko/pseuds/arisu_aiko), [Herber_baby17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herber_baby17/pseuds/Herber_baby17)



> This was originally written for a Fanzine which didn't end up happening due to RL issues for the main editor. Thus I am positing it now although I wrote it about a year ago.

It was shaping up to be a good day in Metropolis. Clark had arrived at the Daily Planet on time, even though Superman had to deal with a plane losing power over the Metropolis Airport and it was Clark’s turn to pick up the coffee, which would be his first cup of the day and Lois’ third or fourth. When Clark entered the newsroom Lois was nowhere to be seen, although her coat was hanging on the back of the office door and her pile of clutter seemed to be slightly larger than it had been the previous night.

 

Clark Kent was moving up in the world: he’d gotten his own office at the Daily Planet. Yes, it had been a closet only two weeks ago, but it was still an office, with his name on the door and everything. He didn’t even have to share it with anyone. Well, anyone except Lois, who was still annoyed that Clark’s name was above hers on the door. Their office was only just large enough for two desks, a file cabinet and enough space to walk around said desks without getting stuck.

 

Lois Lane had a tendency towards clutter—that is to say her desk had a tendency to become cluttered when she was in the middle of breaking a major story. When Lois and Clark’s desks were still located in the bullpen Lois had done her best to keep the clutter to a minimum, but now that the two had their own office her desk could get well... intimidating.

 

It wasn’t that Lois never cleaned her desk. No, she just tended to delay cleaning her desk for as long as possible. Because of this the metal and plastic desk spent about half its life covered in papers, empty coffee cups and other assorted junk. On the other hand Clark’s desk, which sat right next to Lois’s, only got cluttered if he was away from the office for several days and Lois forgot to deal with his interoffice mail.

 

Currently Lois was in the middle of a major story—a piece about Suicide Slums that had turned into the allegations of corruption going all the way up to the Police Chief and the Mayor. So Lois’ desk…well, it looked like a small bomb had exploded on or near it in the recent past—there were roughly a dozen different piles of paper, what seemed like a hundred empty coffee cups (both ceramic and disposable) and her computer was covered in so many post-it notes that Clark could only read the screen if he used his x-ray vision.

 

A side effect of Lois’ desk getting cluttered was that things started to vanish. Usually the stuff which went missing was unimportant—takeout menus, coupons, business cards of unimportant people, random receipts—but occasionally the things which Lois lost were important enough that she was forced to stop and clean off said desk. In order to prevent unplanned desk cleaning Lois had adopted the defensive strategy of placing “important” stuff on Clark’s desk. In order to keep the peace between himself and his partner, Clark had adapted to the random influx of papers from Lois. When he found something randomly sitting on his desk he pushed it to one side and asked Lois about it the next time he saw her, which usually coincided with Lois needing whatever she’d put on Clark’s desk.

 

When Clark set Lois’ coffee down on what appeared to be a relatively level spot, one which wasn’t in danger of suffering a sudden avalanche, and sat down at his own desk, he wasn’t surprised to find that, once again, Lois had decided to protect something from her cluttered desk by placing it on Clark’s. Today the “something” was a newspaper clipping, specifically an article from yesterday’s Inquisitor. For a moment Clark was confused … but then he remembered the contest.

 

Every  week or so Lois and a few other Daily Planet reporters met at lunch and had a contest to see who could find the “worst” article on a given subject. Apparently Lois had bet enough on this week’s contest that she’d decided to place her entry on Clark’s desk for safekeeping. Without really thinking about it, Clark picked up the article and read the headline:

****

** BRUCE WAYNE SPOTTED IN CALIFORNIA! **

 

Underneath the headline was a large photograph, the same one that the Daily Planet had run when Bruce Wayne vanished, the same photograph that had been used by every single newspaper in the world when the Wayne Heir was declared dead one year later. Someone at the Inquisitor had photoshopped a large straw hat on Wayne’s head and a purple lei around his neck—but they hadn’t changed the background or the formal suit that Bruce Wayne was wearing in the photo.

 

The article which went with the large headline was actually smaller than the photo, and most of that space was dedicated to telling the same old story, the one that everyone knew—Bruce Wayne had witnessed the death of his parents in a robbery gone bad when he was five years old. He’d grown into a young man and stood still and silent at the Parole Hearing when Joe Chill, the man who killed his parents, was released… and then he’d disappeared the following night. One year after Bruce Wayne vanished into the Gotham night the Wayne Heir had been declared legally dead.

 

But the tabloids hadn’t waited until the courts’ decision. Less than two days after Bruce Wayne had vanished he’d appeared on the front page of the Inquisitor, which claimed to have seen him in Spain. Ever since then the tabloids had been using Bruce Wayne the same way they used Elvis—every week or so someone claimed to have seen or heard from the missing billionaire. In the last four years Wayne had been seen sunning himself on the Riviera, shopping in the Charlotte Amalie, gambling in Monaco, skiing in Gstaad… and locked away in various mental asylums.

 

“Think I’ve got a winner?” Lois asked as she sat down at her desk, causing several towers of paper to sway ominously. While Clark figured out how to answer Lois picked up her coffee and took the sort of gulp that people usually reserved for hard liquor.

 

“It’s one of the more straightforward Wayne tabloid stories,” Clark noted as he handed the clipping back to Lois. “Two weeks ago I saw one that said Bruce had been abducted by aliens that were holding him captive in a secret base in Alaska.”

 

“And you didn’t save it for me?” Lois practically wailed.

 

“I was kidding Lois.” He sighed.

 

“Well don’t tease me like that!” Lois groaned, leaning back in her chair as she started up her computer. “I’ve lost the last four contests, and there’s a lot riding on this one.”

 

“…how much did you bet?” Clark asked, almost afraid to hear Lois’ response.

 

“We didn’t bet money this time.” Lois said as she started shifting piles of paper around, apparently in an attempt to find her computer’s keyboard. “This time we each bet an article.”

 

“So if you win then your opponents have to write an article for you?”

 

“Yep.” Lois replied, popping the “p” as she extracted her keyboard from underneath a pile of old Time magazines. “Before you object, we got Perry to approve everything. He’s gonna be the judge.”

 

“Then you definitely need something better than this.” Clark replied. “I think you’ve got some Inquisitors in the pile under the cup of pencils.”

 

“Um, Smallville… which cup of pencils?”

 

“The one with the smiling sunflowers.”

 

Several avalanches later Lois, with Clark’s help, managed to find an old copy of the Star City Enquirer which contained an incredibly long and rambling story about how Bruce Wayne had been abducted by the US government and was being held in a secret underground complex in Wyoming with Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana.

 

When lunch time rolled around Lois ran off to her contest, which was being held in Perry’s office, while Clark headed in the opposite direction, out of the newsroom and down to the streets of Metropolis. He picked up lunch at a nearby café and did a quick loop of the city before returning to the Planet to double check some facts.

 

When Lois returned from her “working lunch” she had a huge smirk on her face. Apparently the other contestants didn’t have access to a stash of old tabloids, so they’d all ended up bringing in the same story that Lois had originally found. Lois easily won the contest, which was enough of a reason for Lois to drag Clark out to her favorite hole-in-the-wall Chinese place for dinner. After walking Lois back to her car, Clark headed home, stopping a mugging and a house robbery on the way.

 

All in all it was a good day in Metropolis.

 

The next morning Clark once again managed to arrive at the Daily Planet on time—and a good five minutes ahead of Lois. When his partner arrived she had a large cup of coffee and was complaining that she hadn’t been able to sleep at all the previous night. When Clark remarked that she should probably cutback on the caffeine Lois just glared at him and started to clean up her desk—it looked like she’d hit a dead end in her investigation.

 

Lois and Clark settled down to work on their respective stories. Just before lunch Clark had to duck out to stop a bank robbery a few blocks away. Clark had planned on working on a minor article with Lois over lunch, but when he returned from handing the would-be robbers over to the police he found that everyone (reporters, photographers, even Perry) were all clustered around a television in the newsroom, their eyes glued to the screen.

 

“What happened?” Clark asked as he squeezed in next to Lois.

 

“Bruce Wayne.” Lois replied in a whisper, keeping her eyes on the television, even though said TV was currently showing an ad for dish soap. Before Clark could say anything the commercial ended and Angela Chen appeared on the screen.

 

“We have breaking news from Gotham. Bruce Wayne, only son of Thomas and Martha Wayne, arrived at the Gotham airport at 10:45 today. The Wayne Heir was last seen in 2008 at the parole hearing of Joe Chill.” A video of two men in suits, one young with dark brown hair, one older with white, stepping out of a private jet appeared on the left side of the screen. “Bruce Wayne could not be reached for comment, but William Earle, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, stated that the return of Bruce Wayne would not affect the company, which Mr. Earle plans to take public in a few weeks. Bruce Wayne’s location during the previous four years has yet to be disclosed. For Channel 5, I’m Angela Chen.”

 

“KENT! LANE!” Perry shouted as he swung around to look at the two reporters. “Pack your bags, you’re going to Gotham. I want the Daily Planet to have an exclusive on where Wayne’s been for the past four years!”

 

“Chief, I’m still working that corruption case!” Lois objected. “I’ve got interviews with the Mayor and the Police Chief. If I got to Gotham then some other paper’s going to get this story.”

 

 “Then you’re flying solo on this Kent.” Perry sighed before he started heading back to his office. “But I want front page material—from both of you!”

 

“Yes Chief!” The two replied, Lois throwing in a mock salute before heading back to her desk.

 

“Sorry Clark, but I bet even Superman is afraid of Gotham.” Lois whispered as she started to fiddle with her computer.

 

“And yet somehow ordinary people manage to live there.” Clark replied with a shrug. “At least I’ve got a nice long flight to go over Wayne’s history.”

 

“Bring a book with you.” Lois remarked, not looking up from her computer. “That history won’t take long… all you need to know is that his parents are dead and he’s filthy stinking “old money” rich. Oh, and the first thing _anyone_ thinks about when it comes to Wayne is that picture—the one from the Police Station.”

 

“The one that won every award under the sun?” Clark asked, not really listening to Lois’ reply.

 

He knew which picture Lois was talking about… it had been taken the night that Thomas and Martha Wayne were killed. Bruce was five years old, wearing a suit and bowtie and sitting in a metal folding chair at Gotham Police Headquarters. His father’s coat was draped over Bruce’s shoulders, looking more like a cape then a coat. A police officer, his face turned away from the photographer, was kneeling next to the boy, his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. The picture had appeared on the front page of every single newspaper, usually next to a shot of the alley where Thomas and Martha Wayne had died. At the time Clark had been only seven years old (well… according to his birth certificate) but he could dimly remember seeing the photograph in the newspaper.

 

Other then reading whatever articles the Planet ran about Gotham, Clark hadn’t really paid attention to the city. He’d never actually gone to Gotham, although he had flown over the city once or twice, usually en route to some crisis. He’d looked down at the city’s streets and buildings to get his bearings, but he’d never landed, never even slowed down. Clark didn’t know that much about the dark city… but, like any good reporter, he did his homework.

 

Eighteen years ago, Gotham had been going through an economic depression, which had hit “ordinary people” especially hard. Thomas and Martha Wayne almost bankrupted themselves and Wayne Enterprises in order to help the less fortunate. Their efforts shamed the wealthy of Gotham into similar acts of charity… things had been looking up for the first time in years. But then Thomas and Martha Wayne were killed by the very sort of man they were trying to help.

 

The Wayne Murders had shocked Gotham into acting. The city somehow managed to pull itself back from the brink, but that didn’t mean it actually climbed back up into the light. Crime and corruption ruled Gotham, the mob ran free and the police were almost entirely crooked. Everyone knew, yet no one did anything. The city seemed to be waiting… as if the entire population expected a hero to save them from themselves.

 

Despite all of Clark’s research, Bruce Wayne remained a mystery. In fact, Clark was beginning to suspect that no one actually knew anything about the man. Everyone either wrote Bruce Wayne off as another rich playboy or hoped that he was secretly preparing to follow in his father’s footsteps and save Gotham from itself. In spite of all the resources that Clark could access, either through the Daily Planet or through Watchtower (he owed Chloe several pizzas for that favor), all he’d managed to find were Bruce’s school records.

 

Bruce Wayne had been homeschooled, both before and after his parents’ deaths. When he reached the age when “normal” kids went to high school, Bruce had followed  in his father’s footsteps and attended Excelsior Academy. Bruce Wayne graduated a year early and went to Princeton, where his transcripts were just plain weird. Wayne seemed to have taken classes completely at random, without concentrating on any one field of study. (The only fields he _hadn’_ t taken a class in were art and music.) After a year and a half at Princeton the Wayne Heir had left and returned to Gotham to attend Joe Chill’s parole hearing. He’d been present when his parents’ murderer was released and when Joe Chill was killed… then, two days after returning to Gotham, he’d vanished into thin air and wasn’t seen or heard from for four years.

 

Clark left Metropolis on a red eye. He would have preferred to fly himself to Gotham, but someone at the Planet would have probably noticed if Clark didn’t charge a plane ticket to his expense account. He arrived in Gotham as the sun was rising over the bay, turning the polluted murky waters into gold for a few brief seconds as the first day after Bruce Wayne’s return began. He checked into a hotel with some anonymous secretary at the Planet and ran off to attend a press conference at Wayne Enterprises.

 

After keeping Clark Kent and the other reporters from waiting for roughly an hour, William Earle took the stage and issued a statement that Bruce Wayne would have “…an active role in the future of Wayne Enterprises, starting with a position in the Applied Sciences Division.” It wasn’t until Earle had made his escape that the assembled reporters realized... none of them had ever heard of Wayne Enterprises’ Applied Sciences Division.

 

It was only after calling three different Daily Planet business reporters that Clark learned that the “Applied Sciences Division” was where Wayne Enterprises projects went to die and where William Earle sent employees in order to force them into early retirement. It didn’t surprise Clark that Bruce Wayne’s job was a PR stunt, but he was surprised that Wayne’s job was such an _obvious_ PR stunt.

 

Clark spent most of the day among a small crowd of reporters—their next stop was Gotham Police Headquarters, where Commissioner Loeb followed in Earle’s footsteps by releasing a statement and refusing to answer any questions. After a long and rambling retelling of the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne the only new fact that Loeb had to offer the small crowd of journalists was the Bruce Wayne had left Gotham of his own free will and, since the Wayne Heir had already promised to pay any and all taxes which had gone unpaid during his disappearance, the Police had no quarrel with him and weren’t investigating his disappearance.

 

After that no one felt much like talking to the press. For four days – four extremely long days –  Clark managed to learn absolutely nothing, and was only able to write filler articles for the Daily Planet. During those four days Bruce Wayne had only left Wayne Manor once—when he’d visited Wayne Enterprises and been given his “job” in Applied Sciences. After that trip Wayne had remained in the Manor and hadn’t released so much as a written statement to the press.

 

By the second day reporters had started to drift away, leaving Gotham for greener pastures. The whole world wanted to know the exploits of Bruce Wayne, but it was quickly becoming clear that Wayne planned on staying silent about those secrets. On his fourth day in Gotham, Clark purchased tickets for his return flight to Metropolis. He’d planned on leaving at night, but  Estelle LaRocca, a prominent Gotham socialite, had decided to throw a “Welcome Home” party for Bruce Wayne and, for some unexplained reason, LaRocca had chosen to invite all the out-of-town reporters who were still in Gotham.

 

That was how Clark Kent found himself with about fifteen other reporters on the top floor of the Kane Building, where Estelle’s (current) husband had an apartment… an apartment which probably cost more than Gotham’s police budget. The main room of the apartment quickly filled up with the most prominent citizens in Gotham, including Commissioner Loeb, Mayor Garcia and William Earle… by nine the party was in full swing, even though Bruce Wayne had yet to arrive.

 

It wasn’t like anyone at the party actually cared that Bruce Wayne was alive and well. For the rich and/or famous of Gotham, his return was just an excuse to party. For Estelle La Rocca, it was a chance to show off her wealth. To the reporters, both the party and Bruce Wayne were just another chance at the front page.

 

Despite the invitation that LaRocca had extended to the press, the reporters found themselves without anyone to interview. The only people talking to the press were a couple of Gotham’s “fallen stars”: those who were no longer quite so rich nor quite so famous, and only the most naïve of reporters actually gave them the time of day. Clark and the rest who had been around the block a few times claimed a corner of the apartment’s massive living room as their own, where they were killing time until Bruce Wayne showed up, in the hopes that the recently returned heir would make some sort of speech that they could turn into an article.

 

Clark ended up passing the time by talking to Eleanor West, a young reporter from Star City who had, thanks to luck or fate or whatever you want to call it, ended up being the first reporter to realize that Green Arrow had relocated to Star City. She knew a lot of Green Arrow stories, since she’d written articles about most of them, and like everyone in Metropolis, Clark knew a lot of Superman stories. So the two of them had ended up swapping hero stories while filling up on free food and drink. Eleanor was in the middle of a Green Arrow story involving Ollie and a team of midget bank robbers when Clark made the mistake of trying to walk, talk and take a sip of his drink at the same time.

 

Clark managed to catch himself before he ended up flat on his face on the floor… but he couldn’t stop his drink from all but flying out of his glass and splashing all over the front of some unfortunate stranger’s no doubt ridiculously expensive suit, shirt and tie. Before he picked himself off the ground Clark already started apologizing and looking around for a napkin… but then Clark Kent looked up and realized who he’d spilled his drink on.

 

Bruce Wayne.

 

Clark Kent had managed to spill coca-cola all over Bruce-Fricking-Wayne… who seemed to be strangely amused by the bumbling reporter from Metropolis who was standing in front of him, frozen in shock, his glasses starting to slip off his nose as he clutched the glass whose contents were now soaking into Wayne’s shirt.

 

“Have I done something to offend you Mr…” Bruce Wayne trailed off.

 

“Clark Kent.” He supplied, pushing his glasses back into place. “From the Daily Planet.”

 

“Well this…” Bruce paused as he looked down at his stained shirt. “Is one of the more creative ways I’ve seen of getting an interview.”

 

“I didn’t mean to—” Before Clark could finish his sentence Bruce Wayne laughed and turned to the little circle of Gotham’s wealthy that formed a simi-circle behind him.

 

“Excuse me for a moment.” Bruce smiled at the group, a smile which didn’t go anywhere near his eyes, which were strangely cold and distant. He approached Clark, snagging a drink from a passing waiter with on hand as he placed the other around Clark’s shoulders. Clark found himself being dragged along at the Billionaire’s side, away from the party and down an uninhabited hallway. The Wayne Heir didn’t pull Clark into one of the empty rooms, choosing instead to lean against a wall and take a sip of his drink.

 

“Mister Wayne, I really didn’t mean to—” Clark started apologizing, only to once again be cut off by Bruce Wayne.

 

“Between you and me, Mr. Kent, I didn’t think I could listen to Estelle talk for another second.” Bruce sighed, touching the front of his shirt. “So you’re a reporter?”

 

“From the Daily Planet in Metropolis.” Clark replied, trying not to let his awkwardness show.

 

“Let me guess… your editor sent you to Gotham to report on the prodigal son’s return.” Bruce smiled again, the same fake smile that he’d flashed for the wealthy Gothamites, the same smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“Something like that.” Clark shrugged as he looked away, not wanting to meet Bruce’s eyes. “Lois Lane was busy.”

 

“…Lois Lane?” Bruce asked, blinking in genuine confusion.

 

“Um, sorry—I’d forgotten about the whole ‘gone for four years’ thing.” Clark smiled nervously as Bruce made a noise that just might have been a smothered laugh. “She usually gets assignments like this… I’m just her partner.”

 

“The Wayne Heir returning from the dead wasn’t big enough news for her?”

 

“Oh, you’re big news.” Clark explained, leaning back against the hallway wall, unconsciously mirroring Bruce’s posture. “She just had a previous engagement.”

 

“Are you mocking me Mr. Kent?” Bruce asked, raising one eyebrow as he stared at Clark. “Or are you just preparing to ask a question?”

 

“Well, I am a reporter.”

 

“Well then Mr. Kent, here’s your exclusive.” Bruce raised his glass, but he didn’t take a sip, instead he looked down at the drink for a second before he continued. “I, Bruce Anthony Wayne, spent four years traveling the world and pretending that I wasn’t a Wayne.” He finally took a sip of his drink and swirled the remaining liquid around the glass, making the ice clink. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to blend in when you’re wearing rags and haven’t shaved in several weeks.”

_Or when you mess up your hair, slouch and wear glasses that you don’t actually need._ Clark shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts.

 

“Thank you Mr. Wayne… now I actually have something to show for my time in Gotham.”

 

“Glad to help.” Bruce replies, the corner of his lips turning up in something which might have been the beginning of a smile… he raised his glass in a sort of toast to Clark and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp before heading back towards the party. When he reached the end of the hallway Bruce turned back suddenly, so that he was looking at Clark once again, this time with a smirk on his face.

 

“Next time just ask me for an interview. I promise I’ll say yes.”

 

“I really didn’t mean—” Clark called out, following Bruce back towards the party, but he’s cut off by the Billionaire vanishing into the crowded room.

 

Clark spends the rest of the night in the corner with the other reporters. Estelle made a small speech about how happy she was that Bruce is alive and well, but Wayne remained silent for the rest of the night.

 

Clark returned to his hotel room and pulled together an article for the Planet. It was small and wouldn’t end up anywhere near the front page, but he’d gotten an exclusive, the first words that Bruce Wayne had spoken to the press. It wasn’t much to show for his four days in Gotham, but at least he’d gotten something, unlike all the other reporters.


	2. Chapter 2

James Gordon’s office is one of the backrooms of Gotham’s Central Police Headquarters, the rooms which the public rarely see. To reach his tiny office you have to get past a desk sergeant, up a flight of rickety stairs and down a hallway where only one out of every three lights works at any given time. Or you can climb up a windowless wall, top the balustrade and walk across tar paper until you reach a parapet. Then it’s just a matter of climbing down the fire escape and opening an unlocked window that’s missing a screen.

 

This isn’t his first night out. It can’t be his first night out—he’s not ready, his suit is not complete. He has gauntlets and body armor, but his head is only covered by a ski mask… it isn’t enough to inspire true fear in the hearts of criminals, but it is enough to hide his identity while he sets everything up.

 

He tests the light. The bulb is old, dim. It flickers when illuminated and leaves vast stretches of shadows, shadows deep enough to conceal himself within. He steps into the largest of these shadows and waits, slipping into an almost meditative state.

 

Before long the door slams open and James Gordon steps inside. Kicking the door shut behind him, he heads for his desk, sitting down with his back to the dusty window. He removes his glasses and wipes them on his tie before he switches the desk lamp on. He starts to reach for a stack of reports...when the lights go out.

 

“Don’t turn around,” he whispers, close enough for Gordon to feel his presence… and he presses something that feels like a gun against the Detective’s neck.

 

“What do you want?” Gordon asks in a calm voice. He doesn’t move. Neither one of them moves.

 

“You’re a good cop. One of the few.” He pauses, just long enough to let his words sink into Gordon’s mind. “Carmine Falcone brings in shipments of drugs every week. Nobody takes him down. Why?”

 

“He’s paid up with the right people.” Gordon replies with a slight shrug.

 

“What would it take to bring him down?”

 

Gordon thinks about the question for a second before he speaks. “Leverage on Judge Faden… and a D.A. brave enough to prosecute.”

 

“Rachel Dawes.” Bruce says.

 

“Who are you?” Gordon asks, clearly resisting the urge to try and look behind him.

 

“Watch for my sign.” He removes the stapler, which has been masquerading as a gun, from Gordon’s neck.

 

“You’re just one man.” Gordon replies, not moving even though he can feel the absence of the ‘gun’.

 

“Now we’re two.” Bruce Wayne replies, allowing a small smirk to grace his masked face.

 

“We?”

 

There is no reply. Gordon turns and, upon seeing that the room is empty, he rushes over to the window… where he catches a glimpse of a figure—silhouetted against the night sky—running along the roof.

 

Gordon runs, knowing he can’t possibly move faster then the stranger. He has to go through a good chunk of the police station to get to the roof, and on the way he picks up two cops. The three emerge on to the roof, guns drawn. They can make out someone, dressed entirely in black, on the far side of the roof.

 

“Freeze!” Gordon shouts, only for the stranger to sprint forward and jump.

 

By the time Gordon and the officers reach the other end of the roof the man—if it was a man—has grabbed on to a fire-escape on the building across the street and, as they watch, he seems to melt into the shadows.

 

 “What the hell was that?” One of the patrolmen asks.

_Another lesson._ Bruce thinks as he focuses on staying in the shadows. _I wonder if Lucius has anything for base jumping?_

 

 

 

Clark Kent wakes up by the ringing of his cell phone. He sits up in the hotel bed and flipps the phone open, quickly recognizing the number, which belonged to a contact that Lois helped him get in the Gotham Police Department. Someone had broken into the Central Gotham Police Station around 1:00 am.

 

Clark dashed downtown and started talking to anyone on the force who would say two words to him. According to the officers who were talking, a man, wearing black clothing and a ski mask, broke into the office of James Gordon. Gordon, who had been working late, discovered the intruder, who climbed out a window and up the fire escape to the roof, with Gordon following close behind him. When the man in black arrived on the roof Gordon was joined by two police officers, who saw the man jump off the roof and grab on to the fire escape of the building across the street. Gordon and the two officers who had actually chased after the strange man couldn’t give Clark much of a description… they had no idea who the man was or why he’d broken into the Police Station.

 

Only one other reporter came down to the police station to cover the story—a man from the Gotham Gazette named Alexander Knox. He’d pulled Clark aside and, in a whisper, informed Clark that the “man in black” was “probably just a nut”.

 

“If he’s not insane then he was sent by the mob to get info on Gordon. But he’s probably just a nutcase. We get them all the time in Gotham!” said Knox.

 

Although Clark had no evidence whatsoever, he had a feeling that the strange man breaking into the police station was the beginning of something… he just wasn’t sure what. So, despite having absolutely no evidence – no evidence at all – Clark called up Perry and managed to get “permission” to stick around Gotham. Technically he was on an unpaid vacation… but Perry had promised to pay him back should any newsworthy stories come out of his time in Gotham.

 

Clark extended his hotel reservation and canceled his plane tickets. By noon he was all set up to stay in Gotham for the foreseeable future… he returned to his hotel room and was starting to type up a piece on the break-in at the Police Station when Lois called.

 

“So who do you think he is?” Lois asked the moment Clark answered his phone.

 

“What?” Clark blinked.

 

“The man in black—the guy who broke into the police station!” Lois prodded.

 

“I have no idea,” Clark replied, shifting slightly so that he could look out the window at the Gotham skyline. “All I know is that he was strange—even for Gotham.”

 

“So should I be asking what you think he is?” Lois asked, pausing for a second to curse at her computer. “Is he a Mobster? Crazy person?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Clark sighed. “I’ve… well I’ve got this feeling.”

 

“You’ve got a feeling?” Lois giggled.

 

Clark groaned as she started humming the song he’d accidently quoted. “Lois!” Then, after a moment, “Look, I think… I think he’s either a vigilante or a new hero.”

 

“Okay, I can see where you’d get vigilante… but a hero? In Gotham?”

 

“Stranger things have happened,” Clark muttered, eyes scanning his article.

 

“So Smallville,” Clark could almost hear Lois’ smirk. “Did you really spill a drink on Bruce Wayne?”

 

 

Not two seconds after Clark finished talking with Lois his hotel room phone started to ring. Clark was so shocked he dropped his cell phone. The caller ID was a Gotham area code, but the number didn't belong to any of Clark’s sources… and Clark was fairly certain he hadn't actually given out that phone number to anyone.

 

“Clark Kent?” Without meaning to, Clark turned his name into a question.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Although Clark had only spoken to him once, he recognized the voice – recognized the soft laughter that followed the words. It was Bruce Wayne. Clark accidently gripped the phone too hard, making the plastic crack.

 

“I thought you were going back to Metropolis,” said Bruce.

 

“Something came up,” said Clark, his throat dry. “So why is a Gotham playboy calling the hotel room of a Metropolis reporter? Especially the one who baptized you with soda?”

 

“Well… I had some free time, so I read over some of your old articles,” said Bruce. “I like your style and my people keep telling me I need to start talking to the press… so how would you like another exclusive?”

 

Clark froze, thinking he was hearing things. He tried to talk, stopped, made an odd squeaking noise, stopped again, then collected himself enough to stammer “Now?”

 

“I was thinking something more along the lines of dinner at the Manor,” Bruce replied. “I’ll send a car to pick you up at… oh how about seven?”

 

Clark blinked and looked over at his computer. He didn’t actually have anything he needed to do today, except perhaps zip over to Metropolis for a quick patrol. “S—sure! Seven is fine.”

 

“Good. I’ll tell Alfred we’re having company.” Bruce Wayne hung up, leaving Clark to stare at the phone in his hands. He was going to have dinner at Wayne Manor. He was going to interview Bruce Wayne. Clark quickly hung up and fired off an email to Perry.

 

 

 

_It isn’t exactly a lie. It’s been pointed out to me that my lack of communication with the press is drawing a little too much attention to my sudden return… it’s also been pointed out that, in the eyes of the public, there are only a small number of reasons for Bruce Wayne to give an exclusive to a young, handsome reporter after said reporter spilled a drink on the two of them._

_People are already starting to talk. I can use that to my advantage—when people think of Bruce Wayne they’ll imagine some sleazy escapades with a farm boy from Kansas. As long as they think that then they won’t stop to connect my return to Gotham with my emerging alter-ego._

_It helps that Clark Kent is handsome… and from his articles I get a feeling that he’s intelligent as well. Hopefully I will have an amusing conversation tonight, even though nothing else will, or can, happen. If things were different… I refuse to follow this train of thought. Clark Kent must remain a distraction for the public, another layer separating Bruce Wayne and my true identity._

 

 

At exactly seven o’clock Clark Kent went out the front door of his hotel, unconsciously fiddling with his tie as he looked around for Bruce Wayne. A black town car was parked in front, an older gentleman standing in front of it. When he saw Clark the man turned slightly, so that he faced the reporter.

 

“Mister Kent?” He had a British accent. “Alfred Pennyworth. Master Wayne sent me to fetch you.”

 

Clark blinked, trying to figure out what he should say in response, but Pennyworth cut him off by turning around and opening the car door. Clark settled for “Thank you” and climbed inside, trying not to look as awkward as he felt.

 

During the long drive from Clark’s hotel to Wayne Manor, Clark struggled not to stare awkwardly at the back of Alfred Pennyworth’s head. He wasn't sure whether or not you were allowed to talk to chauffeurs, so he kept almost starting a conversation and then cutting himself off. Finally the car came to a stop. Before Clark had noticed that they'd arrived, Alfred stepped out of the car and opened the door. As he looked up at Wayne Manor, Clark could not help but let out a small gasp.

 

There was something different about Wayne Manor. The Ancestral Home of the Waynes gave off a feeling of wealth, like the Luthor Castle or Oliver Queen’s apartment. But despite the obvious wealth, it also reminded Clark of the Kent Farmhouse. After his own father’s death and his mother going off to Washington, it had felt empty, and for this building to feel the same made sense.

 

The room which Alfred led him to was clearly the Library. The walls were covered with books and there was even a rolling ladder attached to the shelves, with a small pile of books on its top rung. In the only wall space not covered in bookshelves, over a large fireplace of white marble, was a portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne. In the center of the room there was an old leather couch and two armchairs, which were arranged around a square coffee table made of dark brown wood.

 

The Prince of Gotham was sitting in the center of the couch. Surrounding him on either side and on the couch in front of him were newspapers and other pieces of paper, with pencils and pens scattered here and there. Alfred informed Bruce Wayne that dinner would be ready in five minutes and left the room.

 

“Mr. Kent please—sit down.” Bruce smiled, gesturing to one of the armchairs. He was wearing lose black pants and a black t-shirt. His hair looked like he’s recently run a hand through it and there was a pencil tucked behind his ear. As Clark sat down, Bruce leaned back in his seat, stretched, and removed the pencil to mark up the papers in front of him.

 

Clark glanced at the papers. It looked to him like Bruce Wayne was catching up on the years that he’s missed and looking into Wayne Enterprises. One of the piles was devoted to something different: Green Arrow, Superman and a few other heroes.

 

“Homework?” said Clark, gesturing to the coffee table and taking out his notebook and pencil from the pocket of his jacket.

 

“Just catching up,” said Bruce, reaching under one of the paper piles and pulling out an old copy of the Daily Planet, one with a picture of Superman saving Lois Lane on the front page. “Does she do it on purpose?”

 

“Does who do what on purpose?” Clark asked.

 

“Lois Lane,” said Bruce, flipping the paper around, looking down at the photo and the accompanying article. “It seems like she falls off a building every other day…”

 

“I… I hope she doesn’t do it on purpose.” Clark replied, laughing softly. “Lois—well, she wants to get to the truth, and she forgets that getting the truth can be dangerous… so she gets in over her head a lot.”

 

“Good thing Superman’s always there to save her…” Bruce's voice was so low that Clark wasn’t sure if a normal human would have been able to hear it. “But enough about Metropolis. I believe I promised you an exclusive—so fire away Mr. Kent.”

 

Clark shifted in his seat and cleared his throat as he looked down at his notebook. He pretended to review his notes as he searched for something to say to break the ice… only to come up with a blank. _Might as well just start asking questions…_ Clark mentally sighed.

 

“I know that the Gotham Police have officially closed their investigation, but when you vanished there was some speculation that you hadn’t done so of your own free will—”

 

“I decided to leave Gotham,” said Bruce, cutting him off. “I just…I realized that I didn’t know as much as I thought I did, so I decided to leave.”

 

“Without telling anyone?” Clark blinked.

 

“I wanted to vanish,” Bruce shrugged.

 

“So—where’d you end up going?” Clark leaned back in his chair and settled into the familiar rhythm of his interviews.

 

“I joined a cargo ship’s crew under a false name. I ended up in Europe. I didn’t stay in any one place for too long… by the time I was ready to come back to Gotham I’d made my way to central China.”

 

“But what were you doing for four years?”

 

“Surviving.” Another shrug. “I did odd jobs, spent some time in Buddhist temples…” Bruce leaned forward and whispered. “I even got locked up in a Chinese Prison.”

 

Clark smiles at the mental image of Bruce Wayne—Gotham Billionaire—in any kind of prison, let alone a Chinese one. “So why didn’t you contact someone, like Alfred?”

 

“At first I didn’t because I wanted to vanish. After the first few weeks I didn’t even think about Gotham.”

 

“But when you were declared dead—”

 

“I didn’t know.   I didn’t know that I’d been declared dead until I was on a jet headed for Gotham. It... it surprised me.”

 

“You vanish and then stay gone for four years and you’re surprised that you’re declared dead?”  

 

“I… I guess time just moved at a different pace for me.” Bruce shrugged. “It felt like I’d only been gone a few months.”

 

“But how did you manage to hide?” Clark asked. “The whole world was looking for you.”

 

“The ship helped.” Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. “I grew a beard, lost weight and… eventually I gained muscles. When I got back on dry land I ended up becoming a bum—no one looks twice at the homeless. I even got arrested once or twice and the police never bothered to check on the fake name I gave or run my fingerprints.”

 

“It probably helped that you were in Asia…” Clark muttered. “They didn’t expect to find you living like that, so they never even looked.”

 

“Exactly.” Bruce smiled, looking like a teacher whose favorite student had just grasped a new concept. “Everyone was convinced that Bruce Wayne was either dead or still living like a billionaire, so no one looked twice at the homeless man sitting on the street corner.”

 

“So why return now?” Clark asked. “Why not earlier? Or later for that matter?”

 

Bruce paused for a moment as he considered Clark’s question. For a second his eyes met Clark’s, but the reporter could tell that Bruce wasn’t actually looking at him, but looking at some memory. “There wasn’t really a reason—I just knew it was time to come home.”

 

“You knew?”

 

“I knew,” said Bruce, but didn't elaborate. “So I called Alfred and he brought me home—to sunny Gotham City and Wayne Manor.”

 

“And Wayne Enterprises.”

 

“Like my father, I leave the running of my company to better men,” said Bruce.

 

“Better?”

 

“Well, more interested men.”

 

“You don’t strike me as uninterested,” said Clark. “Don’t you have a job in Applied Sciences?”

 

“Yes, but I’m not leading the company in any way.”

 

“So was the job William Earle’s idea?” said Clark, pushing his glasses up with one finger.

 

“Earle suggested that I play a role in Wayne Enterprieses—as a PR stunt. I was the one to suggest that job be in Applied Sciences.”

 

“Why? You obviously don’t need the money.”

 

“I want to be a part of the company my family built,” said Bruce with a soft sigh, his eyes for a split second becoming the eyes of an old man. “William Earle isn’t a part of that company, but Lucuis Fox… my father once said he was the best man he’d ever hired.”

 

Before Clark could ask another question the doors to the library opened and Alfred Pennyworth stepped in, coughing politely to get Bruce’s attention.

 

“Dinner is ready sir,” Alfred said, nodding politely to Bruce before exiting the room.

 

“Come on Kent, we’ll finish this over Alfred’s famous fettuccine alfredo.”

 

Clark expected Bruce to lead him into some colossal dining hall where they’d sit at opposite ends of the table and Clark would have to shout in order to be heard… what he hadn’t even considered was that Wayne would lead him to what appeared to be Wayne Manor’s kitchen, where a small booth, which looked like it had been originally designed to seat the Manors servants, had been prepared with two place settings. Bruce somehow managed to elegantly slide down on the right, leaving Clark to stumble into the left. Alfred silently placed a plate in front of each man and offered them wine.

 

“Um, no thank you,” Clark smiled at the butler. “Water’s fine.”

 

“Sir?” Alfred asked, turning towards Bruce.

 

“I’ll also stick with water,” said Bruce. “I’m still suffering from the aftereffects of Estelle’s party.” He laughed, but to Clark it sounded hollow and fake.

 

Alfred took the wine away and returned with two glasses of water and a pitcher, which he placed in between the two of them. “Anything else Master Wayne?”

 

“No thank you Alfred, I’m sure we can manage.”

 

“Very well sir.” Pennyworth smiled at Bruce Wayne and nodded to the two of them before leaving the room.

 

“I’ve been trying to get him to call me Bruce since I was six.” Bruce sighed as he picked up his fork. “But back to your excusive… where were we?”

 

“Wayne Enterprises,” said Clark, setting his notebook on the table. He took a bite and blinked—Bruce hadn’t been kidding when he’d called it “world famous”. “So you're working under Fox… what are your long-term plans?”

 

“I’ll either rise up through the ranks of Wayne Enterprises, or I’ll follow in my mother’s footsteps and start some sort of charity,” said Bruce. He took a sip of water.

 

“You make it sound like it’s written in stone.”

 

“Following in my parents’ footsteps has been my destiny since I was born,” said Bruce. “But what about you?”

 

“Huh?” Clark almost dropped his fork.

 

“Why did you become a reporter?” Bruce leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.

 

“Well…” Clark fought back a nervous blush. “My best friend was the editor of our High School paper. She kinda roped me into working for her.” Clark smiled as he thought about Chloe. “At first I just did it to help my friend—but then I guess it grew on me.”

 

“Well if the articles I’ve read are indicative of the rest of your work then you’re very good at your profession. Lois Lane’s writing is a bit too passionate for my tastes… you’re better at maintaining an unbiased viewpoint and only taking a stand when the facts clearly support that viewpoint.”

 

“You—you took a class in journalism, didn’t you?” said Clark.

 

“There was this girl...” Bruce smiled, the same fake smile he’d flashed at the party. “I dropped out halfway through the semester, but I picked up enough that I can talk about journalism as if I know something. However, in general, I don’t think highly of reporters.”

 

“And why is that?” said Clark, tilting his head to one side.

 

“The last time I was ‘interviewed’, a reporter asked me for my reaction to Joe Chill becoming eligible for parole.”

 

“That was how you found out—wasn’t it?” Clark whispered, unable to meet Bruce’s eyes.

 

“Yes… how did you—”

 

“Something similar happened to a… an old friend of mine.” Clark frowned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, searching for something to say.

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve run out of questions?” Bruce asked, obviously forcing himself to smile.

 

“Well I’ve run out of interesting questions,” said Clark.

 

“Well that can’t be possible. You haven’t asked about my parents’ murder.”

 

“I wasn’t going to.” Clark pushed the remaining food on his plate around.

 

“You weren’t?” Bruce looked genuinely surprised.

 

“Well… I’ve read a lot of articles about you, and all anyone talks about is their murder. Look—my dad died when I was nineteen. If people treated his death like the only important thing in my life I’d probably go crazy.”

 

“Clark…” For a few seconds Bruce just stared at him wide-eyed, then laughed —not the fake laugh Clark had heard before, but a bitter broken sound. “My father was a doctor first and the chairman of Wayne Enterprises second. He wasn’t a religious man, but he kept a Medal of Saint George in his medical bag—a woman had given it to him after he helped her son, who had severe schizophrenia. Thomas Wayne only wanted to help people… he died protecting me and my mother. My Mother was deeply involved in charity work, helping the less fortunate. Martha Wayne died because she screamed when my father was shot. I survived because I was a kid who was too scared to even whimper.”

 

 “It wasn’t you fault.” Clark whispered.

 

“I know.” Bruce shrugged. “I was five, what could I have done?”

 

“I just had this feeling that you need to be reminded from time to time.”

 

“Alfred says the same thing.” Bruce smiled ever so slightly, a real smile that lit up his brown eyes, making them soft and warm.

 

“Then you should listen to him.” Clark glanced down at his notebook, which now held several pages worth of notes.

 

“Do you have enough?” 

 

“Yes.” He flipped the notebook closed and placed it back in his pocket. “I’ve just got one last question…off the record.”

 

“Oh?”  

 

“Why me?”

 

 “Because you weren’t trying to use me. You wanted a story, but you didn’t try to use my past for your own profit. You’re a good man, Clark Kent.”

 

The door to the kitchen opened and Alfred came in, holding a cell phone. “William Earle, sir.”

 

“Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce smiled at his butler and turned towards Clark. “Looks like we've finished just in time. Alfred will take you back to your hotel.”

 

“It was a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Wayne.” Clark stood and extended his hand.

 

“The pleasure was mutual.” Bruce shook Clark’s hand and flashed him a smile before taking the phone from Alfred. For a second Clark thought he saw a grimace on Bruce’s face, but it was quickly masked by a bland smile, and he left Clark to follow Alfred out to the waiting car.


	3. Chapter 3

  _Clark Kent is every bit as intelligent as I had hoped he would be. Although I’d prepared myself for something more like a traditional interview, I was pleasantly surprised by Kent’s conduct. The world needs more men like him… and more papers like the Daily Planet._

_It would have been so easy to simply sit and talk with Cla—with Kent. But the man is dangerous… there’s something in his eyes, as if he can see through Bruce Wayne—as if he can see the real me._

_I want to invite him back. I want to call him and ask him to come to dinner tomorrow. I want… a great many things, most of them would probably disgust Kent—unless the rumors concerning him and Lex Luthor are true. I shouldn’t think about that. I shouldn’t allow myself the luxury of even entertaining a vague hope._

_I need to stop thinking about the reporter from Metropolis. I have a mission tonight, I’m stepping out for the first time… and no doubt Clark Kent will report on the newest addition to Gotham’s landscape of crime and corruption._

 

 

Only a matter of minutes after Alfred Pennyworth returned Clark Kent to his hotel, he left, this time under his own power and via the window of his room. Within three hours Clark had flown to Metropolis, dealt with the problem and returned to Gotham. He’d intended to go straight to bed—he might not need as much sleep as a human, but he liked getting as much sleep as he could.

 

But Clark had noticed something when he was standing near his hotel room window, changing out of the cape and tights—almost halfway across Gotham a powerful searchlight had been turned on and pointed towards the sky. There was something obscuring part of the searchlight—a strange shape that resembled a Rorschach inkblot test – but before Clark could focuses on the searchlight he noticed that several police cars were racing toward it.

 

In a blink of the eye Clark Kent found himself among a growing crowd of reporters, photographers and spectators, watching from behind a hastily set up line of police tape as the Gotham Police tried to make sense of the scene.

 

Sitting on the ground in an orderly row were a dozen men secured by zip ties. The spotlight shone on  the group of criminals and there was something tied to it, although Clark couldn’t make out what it was due to the excited crowd blocking his view. As Clark made his way towards the edges of the tape, a police car pulled up and two men stepped out—one a uniformed police officer, the other Sergeant James Gordon.

 

“Are those Falcone’s men?” The officer asked Gordon, gesturing towards the tied men.

 

“Does it matter?” Gordon sighed, kicking at a piece of trash on the ground. “We’ll never tie it to him anyway.”

 

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” The officer remarked, gesturing to the searchlight—which Carmine Falcone was tied to, his body creating the dark splotch on the searchlight’s beam.

 

“What the hell…” Gordon trailed off as he walked over to the searchlight, his gaze slowly following the beam up to the cloudy sky above. For a second his gaze remained fixed on the rough circle that the searchlight painted on the sky above, but then Gordon shifted to look at the police officers.

 

“Cut him down.” Gordon ordered as he turned away from the searchlight. “And turn that thing off.”

 

Clark glanced up at the searchlight a final time before the officers turned it off… he could hear one of Falcone’s men talking to a police officer, telling the officer about the man who had done this—the man who had tied them up, the man who had bound Falcone to the searchlight.

 

“Falcone asked him who he was.” The criminal told the cop. “Right after he reached into the limo and pulled Falcone out.”

 

“So what did this man say?” The cop asked, clearly not believing the criminal.

 

“Batman. He said his name was Batman.” The man replied right before he was shoved into the back of a police car.

 

 _Batman_. Clark smiled slightly as he tested out the name… he wondered if the searchlight had been planned out beforehand, or if it had been a spur of the moment thing. _Or if he even noticed how Falcone created a… well a vaguely bat shaped black blob—if you closed one eye and squinted a little._

 

Clark turned away from the crowd of reporters, who were starting to all but scream for the police to give them some sort of statement, so they’d have some idea what was going on. Outside the circle of press, police and criminals, Gotham was strangely quiet. The city felt darker, and there was something else, something that Clark couldn't put his finger on.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Clark Kent thought he saw something moving in the darkness. He whirled around, almost forgetting himself, moving too fast and scanning the skyline. But whatever it was vanished before he could get a good look—if it was ever there in the first place.

 

 _As superhero names go… “Batman” isn’t too bad._ Clark found himself smiling as he pulled out his notebook and started writing his next article.

 

 

_I should have gone straight back to the Cave and the Manor after my meeting with Rachel… but I didn’t. Instead I returned to the docks on the off chance that he would be there._

_I wonder what he thinks of all of this. I wonder if he saw my sign. I wonder if he considers me a vigilante._

_But most of all I wonder why I care about this man, this reporter from Metropolis._

 

The next morning _The Gotham Gazette_ screamed **MASKED VIGILANTE EXPOSES DRUGS RING** while _The Gotham Post_ opted for the more sensational **BAT SERVES UP CRIME BOSS**. The article Clark managed to get into the _The Daily Planet_ gave the headline: **GOTHAM VIGILANTE BUSTS DRUG RING**.

 

Clark rewarded himself by ordering room service for breakfast. As he ate he flipped through the various news channels. Several times he saw a clip of Police Commissioner Loeb proudly declaring that “No one takes the law into their own hands in Gotham” and that “the Gotham Police will arrest “the Batman.”

 

Other than Loeb’s comments, the Police were silent, so after a quick scan of the city, Clark changed into cape and tights and flew to Metropolis. He started off doing just a quick patrol, which soon turned into several hours of running back and forth, dealing with small things like having to snatch Lois out of thin air after tumbling over the side of a building.

 

When Superman finally made his way back to Gotham it was late afternoon. He changed back into Clark Kent’s clothing and contacted his various sources, just to be sure that he hasn’t missed anything while in Metropolis. Once he ran out of informants to call, Clark pulled out a copy of Sherlock Holmes and lounged on the hotel bed… he had nothing to do but kill time until nightfall. After all, bats are nocturnal and the descriptions of Batman given by Falcone’s men agreed that the man dressed in black. It made sense for Batman to do most of his work at night, and the times that he’d been spotted had been at night—or early in the morning, depending on your point of view.

 

Clark was two pages from the end of _The Hound Of The Baskervilles_ when the phone rang. He peered at the phone over the top of his book for a second before reaching over to answer it.

 

“Clark Kent.”

 

“So there’s this dinner I’ve been invited to…” Once again Clark found himself talking to Bruce Wayne. “Seeing as how I have to go and you haven’t left Gotham yet—do you want to come as my plus one?”

 

“You want me to go to dinner?” Clark's book fell to the bed, forgotten.

 

“Yes.”

 

“With you?” Clark asked, his hand clenching the phone just a little too tightly.

 

“No, with Alfred.” Clark could almost hear Bruce’s smirk. “William Earle has invited me to dinner. He’s indicated that I can bring someone with me.”

 

“So you’re asking me to be that someone.” Clark smiled slightly and shifted the phone to his other hand.

 

“Well, Alfred’s the only other person that I know. So do you want to come?”

 

Clark hesitated for a moment before deciding that he had no real reason to say no. He’d probably get an article for the Planet out of this dinner and, if Batman decided to come out, it would be easy for Clark to excuse himself and use his super speed to follow the new hero/vigilante. Also, to tell the truth, Clark actually found himself wanting to spend more time with Bruce Wayne.

 

“Sure,” said Clark, smiling. “When and where are we meeting?”

 

“However long it takes you to ride the elevator.” Once again Clark could hear his smirk. “I’m parked right outside your hotel.”

 

“You’re already here?” Clark practically squeaked and almost dropped the phone.

 

“Yep.” Bruce popped the ‘p’. “And I doubt that you can miss my car.”

 

All things considered Clark Kent has never been that interested in cars. He liked the truck that Lex had tried to give him all those years ago, and he always liked listening to Lex (and later Ollie) talk about his latest car. But unlike most of the men he knew, Clark had never been obsessed with cars, and what little he knew he'd picked up from his time with Lex, Oliver and Lois.

 

Bruce Wayne was sitting outside of Clark’s Hotel in a silver convertible—a Lamborghini Mucielago. Clark knew what kind of car it was because, during his last conversation with Green Arrow, Oliver had mentioned that he’d been thinking about purchasing one. Ollie had show Clark a picture of said car and lovingly described every feature, including how it’s doors swung up instead of outwards.

 

“Woah.” Clark stared at the car and whistled softly.

 

“Oh, you should see my other one.” A small smile lit up Bruce's face. “So are you coming or not?”

 

 “I’m just trying to figure out how to open this door without breaking it…” said Clark. “I get the feeling my grandchildren would still be paying for it.”

 

They were headed to dinner at Puccio’s, a restaurant located in the Gotham Arms, an expensive hotel located on the other side of town. It was early evening, the sun has only just started to go down and traffic was relatively light… Bruce kept the convertible’s roof down as they made their way across Gotham.

 

“So what’s been keeping you in Gotham?” Bruce asked, not taking his eyes off the road.

 

“Batman mostly,” said Clark, looking at Bruce out of the corner of his eye. “But having a Billionaire on my phone isn’t bad, especially when he takes me to dinner.”

 

“Well, as I said before, you’re the only person I know…” said Bruce. “Well, the only other interesting person I know besides Alfred.”

 

“So you’re taking me to have dinner with you and William Earle, one of the most powerful men in Gotham, because I’m interesting?”

 

“Yes. Besides, this is what Billionaire playboys do—drive fast, expensive cars, buy things that aren’t for sale and date beautiful people.”

 

“Date?” Clark couldn't keep himself from squawking as he whipped his head around to stare at him. “This… this isn’t a date?” He tried to object, only to have his objection come out as a question.

 

“Of course it isn’t,” Bruce laughed, one hand leaving the wheel to make a dismissive gesture. “But I’m sure some tabloid will say it is.”

 

“So why not take a model with you, or an actress?” Clark asks. “Wouldn’t that be better for your… um, image?”

 

“I didn’t want to take someone who would just squeeze the life out of my arm and look pretty. I want someone who can actually talk to me, who will argue with me and try to prove their point as opposed to just nodding and agreeing with whatever I say…” Bruce sighed softly. “Besides, I don’t really care about what people think.”

 

Clark felt like he should say something, but the car was already slowing to a stop in the semicircular driveway of Puccio’s. A small group of photographers and reporters were camped outside the front door. The moment that the Lamborghini pulled to a stop, the cameras started flashing, and the flashing only intensified once the press saw the person sitting in Bruce Wayne’s passenger seat.

 

Clark did his best to smile for the cameras, not look like a complete idiot and not trip over his own feet as he followed Bruce into the restaurant. He made a mental note to text Lois, his mother and maybe Perry, just in case one of them happened to come across a tabloid and find his picture in it.

 

Puccio’s was on the top floor and had a revolving door, small lobby and glass elevator dedicated to the restaurant’s patrons. Twenty floors up, the buildings of Gotham were black outlines against a fiery sunset, with a million tiny lights slowly turning on. The city looked beautiful, innocent and clean, especially when viewed through floor-to-ceiling windows.

 

The entire restaurant glittered. White linen, crystal glasses, silver tableware and a sculpture  fountain which in one wall. Soft jazzy classical music played as a backdrop for intimate conversations around tall flickering candles. Diamonds and other precious stones glittered as they graced the necks, wrists and ears of beautiful women, while the men casually lounged in suits that cost more than Clark makes in two years. Clark felt, and was, woefully underdressed. Even the busboys were wearing better clothing then him.

 

Bruce didn't even need to explain who he was or where he would be sitting. The moment he entered, a maitre d’ smiled and led the way to William Earle’s table. Bruce walked as if he owned the place. Even though he was following the maitre d’, Bruce Wayne managed to look as if he was the one leading the group. The low murmur of conversation and the sound of silverware touching plates ceased as the patrons stare at Bruce Wayne and his mysterious (horribly dressed) male guest.

 

William Earle’s table wasn't in the center of the restaurant, but it was quite close. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises was seated with three other people—one man and three women, all younger then Earle and half-way through their appetizers. Clark recognized the woman to William Earle’s right as his wife, his second wife, twenty years younger than him. Bruce leaned towards Clark and whispered that the man sitting across from Earle was Mr. Vanderwende, the head of Wayne Enterprise’s PR department and his wife.

 

The two seats left empty at the table were across from each other. Bruce sat down next to Mr. Vanderwende and Clark took the seat next to William Earle. Bruce smiled the fake vacant smile Clark was starting to find both creepy and sad. He greeted everyone and introduced Clark as “a reporter from Metropolis” before effortlessly inserting himself into the conversation as Clark remained silent, content to watch and listen.

 

The conversation had been focused on some minor social scandal, but it quickly turned to the crime situation in Gotham, and Batman. William Earle and the Vanderwendes were all against the “vigilante” but, strangely enough, Ms. Earle supported him.

 

“Well, he may be unorthodox…” said Earle’s young wife, smiling, “But at least he’s getting something done.”

 

“You can’t be serious,” said Mr. Vanderwende. “Bruce, help me out here!”

 

“Well, a guy who dresses up like a bat clearly has issues,” said Bruce, with a hollow sounding laugh.

 

“But he did put Falcone and his men behind bars,” said Clark.

 

“Yes, and now the cops are trying to bring him in,” said Mr. Vanderwende, “What does that tell you?”

 

“That they’re jealous?” said Ms. Vanderwende, giving her husband a playful shove as the table’s entrées arrive.

 

“Metropolis has Superman, and Star City has Green Arrow, so why can’t Gotham have it’s own hero?” said Clark.

 

“I think that this Batman deserves a medal,” Earle’s wife announced as she picked up her silverware.

 

“And a straightjacket to pin it on,” William Earle growled, before digging into his steak. Bruce’s hands tightened on the silverware, but his face remained in a smile.

 

As the meal continued Clark was fascinated by Bruce and William Earle’s interactions. It was  clear that neither man cared for the other, yet they somehow managed to stay civil. Clark could tell that Bruce was holding himself back, that he was forcing himself to play the role of “stupid billionaire playboy”. It almost physically pained Clark to see Bruce do this, but that pain was quickly replaced by disgust when he realized that no one else was even questioned Bruce’s charade.

 

Eventually the desserts, which cost more than Clark’s weekly grocery bill, were finished, and William Earle paid for everyone’s dinner, turning down Bruce’s offer to split the bill. The Vanderwendes excused themselves before the waiter returned with Earle’s credit card, leaving Bruce and Clark to make their escape while Earle theatrically signed his name while laughing at a joke his wife whispered in his ear.

 

Once again Clark and Bruce’s journey from Earle’s table to the elevator was accompanied by a noticeable hush, as the patrons of Puccio’s once again stopped to stare at the two men. The room was filled with the soft sounds of dozens of people whispering as they tried to figure out who Bruce Wayne's guest was. The popular theories were bodyguard, “boy toy” or both.

 

Clark and Bruce were alone in the elevator down from Puccio’s to the ground floor, but the ride passed in silence. They stepped out into the lobby at the exact same moment that a young woman emerged from a cab and started walking towards the elevator. Bruce glanced up, saw the young woman and almost tripped over his own feet.

 

She was young, either in her early or middle twenties...the kind of woman who will always be stuck with the “cute” label, but has managed to use that to her advantage. She had big blue eyes and slightly wavy brown hair that fell just below her shoulders. She wore a long black dress with a turtle neck and no sleeves, while her arms were covered by a see-through black shawl.

 

She stopped in front of Bruce and Clark. “Bruce?” She wasn't really smiling, but the expression on her face was close enough to a smile that an onlooker would be fooled.

 

“Hello Rachel,” said Bruce, his fake smile becoming more genuine. Rachel fiddled with her small purse while Bruce’s hands retreated into his pockets.

 

“I heard that you were back…” Rachel’s gaze shifted to Clark for a second. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, just having dinner with William Earle.” Clark glanced at the Billionaire out of the corner of his eye, trying to remember where he’d heard the name “Rachel” before. “It’s… it’s good to see you,” Bruce added, his voice coming out in a rasp, as if he needed a glass of water.

 

“You were gone a long time,” said Rachel.

 

“I know,” said Bruce. “How are things with you?”

 

“The same.” Rachel didn't meet Bruce’s gaze. “The job’s getting worse.”

 

“You can’t change the world on your own.”

 

“I know I can’t.” Rachel crossed her arms in front of her. “But what choice do I have? You’re… busy.”

 

“Rachel, all this…” Bruce glanced down at the floor before continuing in a whisper. “It’s not who I am. Inside, I’m different.”

 

“Deep, deep down you may be the same great little kid you used to be… but I doubt it.” Rachel sighed and turned to face Clark. “He hasn’t told you about what happened at Chill’s parole hearing, has he?”

 

“What?” Clark blinked as Bruce flinched beside him.

 

“I thought so.” Rachel sighed before turning back to Bruce. “Bruce… it’s not who you are underneath. It’s what you do that defines you.”

 

“Rachel!” said Bruce, but she headed past him to the elevator, and she didn't look back. Bruce stared after her for a moment. Before Clark could say anything, he took the keys to the Lamborghini from the waiting valet, saying nothing. The convertible’s roof was up and a light drizzle had begun to fall.

 

For two blocks neither man spoke as the car moved through Gotham’s streets. Clark would have said something, but he felt that Bruce needed to be the one to break the silence. So he waited.

 

“Her name is Rachel Dawes,” said Bruce as they came to a red light. His voice was soft and his eyes   focused on the road ahead. “Her mother worked for my parents. She’s the assistant DA now… and she was the last person I saw before I left Gotham.”

 

“So why was she so…” Clark trailed off, unsure of how to describe Rachel Dawes.

 

“She’s angry. I disappointed her at Joe Chill’s parole hearing.”

 

“But that was four years ago.” Clark frowned. “What could have hap—”

 

“I brought a gun,” said Bruce. “I… I’d planned on shooting him.”

 

“But you didn’t,” said Clark, not letting a single second of silence hang between the two of them.

 

“Only because the mob shot him first.”

 

“If you had another chance… would you still try to shoot him?”

 

For a moment Bruce was silent. “No. I’d speak up. I’d beat the shit out of him… but I wouldn’t shoot him.” His voice wavered as he spoke and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. “At least, I don't think I would… I wasn’t exactly thinking straight at the time.”

 

The Billionaire laughed bitterly and, without thinking about it, Clark reached out and gently grasped Bruce’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Bruce glanced at Clark out of the corner of his eye and a smile appeared on his face. He didn't try to hide it this time, and the smile was real.

 

“See?” Clark whispered, a smile on his face. “You’re not a bad person.”

 

“But I’m still glad he’s dead,” Bruce whispered, his smile vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

 

“So what?” Clark shrugged, awkwardly removing his hand from Bruce’s shoulder. “He killed your parents. You’ve got every right and every reason to hate his guts.”

 

“We’re almost back at your hotel,” said Bruce.

 

“Yeah…” Clark bit his lip. “Look, I feel kinda stupid asking this… but would you like to come up? I’m reasonably sure I can get the coffee maker to work.”

 

“…yes.” Bruce replies in a hesitant voice. “I’d… I’d like that.”

 

 

Bruce turned off the road and into the garage of Clark’s hotel. Soon the Lamborghini was parked and Clark was leading Bruce Wayne up to his room. The Hotel’s lobby was practically empty, the doorman was asleep standing up, and the woman behind the main desk appeared to be watching videos on Youtube. Neither noticed the Billionaire and the reporter.

 

It was only when they were actually on his floor and heading towards his room that he started to feel nervous. His cape and tights were hidden away in a secret compartment of his luggage and his room was tidy. He actually checked with x-ray vision before opening the door and awkwardly stepping back so that Bruce could enter.

 

The Billionaire stepped into the room as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As Clark moved to the coffee maker and attempted to get it working, Bruce managed to elegantly fall back onto the sofa in a dignified sprawl.

 

“So what’s Smallville like?” Bruce asked as Clark managed to wrangle two cups of coffee from the stubborn machine.

 

“Smallville?” Clark made his way over to the sofa and sat down, passing one cup to Bruce. “Your typical small town…well, other then the meteor showers and Luthor Castle.”

 

“Does Lex actually live there?” Bruce asked, taking a sip of the coffee.

 

“Not currently,” said Clark, swirling his coffee around in the slightly chipped mug. “I think he got his fill of Smallville a long time ago.”

 

“You were friends with him, weren’t you?” said Bruce. Clark glanced up, his eyes meeting the Billionaire’s intense gaze. It was almost as if Bruce Wayne was a superhero who could see right through Clark’s disguise, see the suit and the tights, the cape and the super powers. But despite the intensity of Bruce’s gaze, Clark didn't feel uneasy. “Didn’t you save his life?”

 

“I was in the right place at the right time,” said Clark. “If I’d been a few steps to the left he would have hit me and we probably would have both died.”

 

“You’re not friends anymore?” said Bruce, tilting his head to one side and running a hand through his hair.

 

Clark sighed and leaned back on the couch, staring up at the hotel room’s ceiling as if it held the answer to Bruce’s question. “We drifted away… he had a company to run, I had to grow up and figure out what I was doing with my life. We couldn’t be the farm boy and the exiled rich kid forever.”

 

“The rumors probably didn’t help,” said Bruce, stretching out, placing his cup on the coffee table and turning so that he faced Clark.

 

“Rumors?” Clark blinked in confusion. “What rumors?”

 

“About you and Lex. An old schoolmate of mine called the other day and informed me that I was getting ‘Lex Luthor’s sloppy seconds’. When I asked him what he meant he gleefully informed me that, while in Smallville, Lex had made you his ‘kept boy’.”

 

“…seriously?” Clark sighed, running a hand through his hair.

 

“I hope you understand that I didn’t believe him.” Bruce quickly added. “He and I were never friends, except for when he wanted me to do his homework.”

 

“Lex and I were good friends once… nothing more and now we’re a whole lot less.” Clark explained, before following Bruce’s lead and abandoning his cup of coffee. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Sorry for what?” Bruce asked.

 

“Well now everyone’s going to say I’m your ‘kept boy’… aren’t they?”

 

Bruce contemplated this for a few seconds, gazing steadily at Clark. “I hope that I will never be so…” Bruce paused to search for the right word. “So self-centered that I’d have to ‘keep’ anyone.”

 

Clark found himself blushing so hard that his eyes closed for a second, only to snap open when Bruce’s hand cupped his cheek. In the handful of seconds that Clark’s eyes had been closed Bruce had closed the gap between the two of them and was now so close that their noses were almost touching.

 

“I don’t want a kept boy…” Bruce whispered, his dark blue eyes staring into Clark’s sky blue. “I want a partner.”

 

Then Bruce Wayne leaned forward and kissed him. For a second Clark’s eyes went wide, before slowly drifting closed as he was drawn into the kiss. Bruce’s hand, which had been cupping his cheek, moved to tangle in Clark's hair as Clark reached out and wrapped his arm around Bruce's waist, pulling him closer until he was practically sitting in his lap. Bruce’s free arm wrapped around Clark’s shoulder’s, pulling him even closer.

 

When Bruce pulled back he was panting for breath, slightly flushed and smiling. He made no attempt to pull away… instead he starts laughing. “That was one hell of a first kiss.”

 

“What?” said Clark, “Seriously?”

 

Bruce hummed an affirmative as his hand dropped from Clark’s hair to cup his cheek once more. Bruce started to lean in, as if to start another kiss, but he was interrupted by a phone ringing. Both men pulled back just enough to reach inside pockets and retrieve their phones. Bruce glanced at his phone and flipped it open.

 

“I’m on my way Alfred,” Bruce said, and hung up.

 

“Business calls?” said Clark.

 

“You’d think a billionaire playboy could get a night off,” Bruce sighed as he dropped the phone back into his pocket. “Alfred’s making me have a birthday party—two days from now, at the Manor. Would you—”

 

“I’d love to,” said Clark, smiling as the two separated, standing up and awkwardly moving towards the door.

 

Bruce reached to open the door, but stopped and turned so that he was facing Clark. “I’ll call you.” He leaned forward and quickly dropped another kiss on Clark’s lips, so suddenly that Clark  almost didn't have time to react.

 

“You better,” Clark whispered, grabbing Bruce’s hand and squeezing it once before allowing the man to open the hotel room door and leave.

 

The door swung closed of it’s own accord and Clark couldn't resist following Bruce’s progress to the elevator with his powers—right before the elevator doors closed and started moving downward, the Billionaire ran a finger over his lips, which were turned up in a smile.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_I set out to become a symbol, to become something which will hopefully be incorruptible, something which can’t be stopped. A symbol which would protect those I care about… I had thought that list was set in stone, that Rachel and Alfred were the only people I cared about._

_But then a bumbling reporter from Metropolis spilled his drink on me at a party and, instead of reacting as all the other rich men and women in Gotham would react, I gave him an exclusive and invited him to the Manor._

_I guess Alfred was right when he told me that if I started pretending to have fun I might have a little by accident. Clark Kent was supposed to be a distraction for the reporters, he was supposed to enforce my image as an air-headed billionaire playboy. I wasn’t supposed to actually like him, to enjoy talking with him. I wasn’t supposed to care what he thinks and I definitely wasn’t supposed to actually fall in love with him._

_But I have. I’ve let a reporter get under my skin, a man whose job it is to ask questions and look closely at the world around him... but I can’t push him away, not now, not after kissing him and watching him blush as we parted ways._

_God help me… a part of me wants to tell him the truth. I had thought it was bad not being able to tell Rachel about how Bruce Wayne spends his nights, but not telling Clark Kent is a hundred times worse._

_I can’t think about this now… there’s no time. I have to get back to the Manor and change. Batman needs to go to work. By taking down Falcone I’ve stopped a lot of drugs from reaching the streets—but I need to find out what happened to the other drugs, the ones placed inside the rabbits and sent to the Narrows. Flass knows and it shouldn’t be too hard to convince him to tell me what I want to know, what I need to know._

 

 

In the upper part of town, several stories above an alley, in the pouring rain, Batman screamed at Detective Flass and he stammered out an address in the Narrows. The address belonged to an apartment in an old public housing project. Inside the bleak box-like buildings, with their peeling paint, leaky pipes and long, dark corridors lived Gotham’s urban poor, with as many as ten people living in a three-room apartment. The apartment which Batman was interested in was on the fourth floor, empty except for a few cardboard boxes and a large pile of stuffed rabbits.

 

As soon as he climbed through the window, it started raining heavily outside. Ignoring the weather, Batman crouched down to inspect the rabbits—they’d been torn open, and it was clear that something had been removed from their stuffing. Before he could take any samples or look around, the door rattled and someone tried to open the ancient rusted lock.

 

When the door finally opened Batman was hiding in the dingy bathroom and the three men who entered the apartment don’t notice him. Two of the men looked like typical Gotham thugs for hire, but the last man was wearing a suit and holding a briefcase. Batman recognized the third man, even though they hadn't actually met face to face.

 

“Get rid of all traces,” said Jonathan Crane, the Head of Arkham Asylum.  

 

“Better torch the whole place,” one of the men grunted. Soon the entire apartment was filled with the pungent order of gasoline. Crane coughed and moved towards the fire escape, which Batman had used to enter the apartment.

 

One of the thugs entered the bathroom and started throwing gasoline around. He turned to the mirror and stopped, blinking in confusion. Before the man could realize someone else was in the broken dirty mirror, Batman grabbed his head and forced it forward, knocking the man out and destroying the mirror. As he fell to the ground unconscious, Batman quickly moved to the second man, easily taking him out.

 

Bruce headed into the main room to confront Crane, only to find that the Doctor has donned a strange burlap mask. Before Batman could react, a small puff of smoke spat out from a mechanism hidden in the man’s sleeve. Bruce turned his head away, but was too close to avoid the smoke. He inhaled it and was instantly choking…

 

He was back at the bottom of the well, five years old, with bats flying around him. Instead of a man in a strange mask he was looking up at a monster coughing up live bats. He knew it has to be an illusion, but he couldn’t keep himself from falling back and trying to crawl away on his hands and knees. The room was spinning and his head was pounding. It hurt to think, it hurt to breathe.

 

“Oh, having trouble?” Crane’s voice was distorted, sounding like the voice of a demon, not the voice of a man. “You look like a man who takes himself too seriously…”

 

Bruce found himself hyper-aware of the open window and the heavy rain outside… _If I can get to the window_ … before he could think any further, Crane smashed a bottle over his head. The cowl protected him, but now the amber liquid was pouring over his mask and suit. It smelled like gasoline and filled his nostrils. Batman coughed and gasped for air.

 

“Do you want my opinion?” Crane asked, holding up a cheap plastic lighter in one hand. ‘You need to lighten up.”

 

Then Crane tossed the lighter at Batman. The gasoline ignited and Batman was instantly on fire. He closed his eyes and turned, throwing himself out the window. He landed on the fire escape, tossed himself over the railing and dropped off the side. He tried to open up his cape and turn it into a ridged wing glider, but it was burned through by the fire.

 

Instead of gliding away he spiraled down, landing on an ancient car on the street below. For a second he lay still, panting for breath as the heavy rain extinguished the flames. He mentally scanned his body, looking for broken bones… he couldn’t detect any, but he could tell that Crane’s drug was still affecting him—in fact, it was getting worse.

 

Batman slunk into an alley, away from prying eyes. His entire body started to shake as he reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small phone.

 

“Alfred!” he gasped, as the world starts to close in around him.

 

The bats were back, screeching and tearing at his suit, his hair, his skin. He could feel the blood pouring from the scratches and bites left by the flying rodents. He knew that they couldn’t be real…but the pain was so intense he knew it had to be absolutely, one-hundred percent, real.

 

He was dimly aware of the car as it pulled up next to him. Alfred managed to get Bruce into the backseat, but the bats followed him. They wouldn't leave him alone, they wouldn't stop screaming and tearing and swarming around him.

 

Alfred drove away from the Narrows and Bruce was no longer lying on the floor of the cave. Instead he was falling down into the darkness, which seemed to have no end.

 

“Clark!” Bruce was unable to stop himself from crying out in terror, before the darkness consumed him and time ceased to have anything approaching meaning.

 

 

 

When Clark woke up he didn't expect Bruce to call him back. Well, that wasn't really true. He  hoped that Bruce would call him, but didn't actually believe he would. After all, the two of them had…well, Clark guessed it was a date, already scheduled, so there was no reason for the billionaire to call him before the party.

 

 _The party!_ Clark groaned and rested his head in his hands. _It’s going to be my… is boyfriend the right word? Are we at that point yet? Well it’s going to be my—Bruce’s birthday in two days and I haven’t the faintest idea what to get him! I mean really, what the hell do you get a man that either has or can afford everything when you’re living off a reporter’s salary?_

 

_Flowers? No, too girly. Chocolate? No, too cliché. Diamonds? Also too girly… and expensive. Sure, I could just crush a lump of coal, but that’s just asking for trouble._

Clark contemplated calling his mom and asking for help, but he was not even completely sure if Bruce was his boyfriend yet, and the conversation would probably get really embarrassing really quickly. He thought about asking Lois, but she would just pester Clark until he revealed his boyfriend’s name, and he didn't know how open Bruce wanted to be. He briefly contemplated calling Oliver, but while he and the Green Arrow were friends, they weren't really that close. He would call Chloe, but she’d probably go crazy trying to figure out where Bruce Wayne had been for those four years, and Clark was strangely hesitant about looking for answers to that question.

 

It was a slow news day, so Clark went down to the hotel’s front desk and asked for directions to the nearest shopping mall, just to wander around and see what caught his eye. Several times he paused to take a closer look, but nothing seemed like the right thing to give to a man that you’d known for less than a week. He left the mall with empty hands.

 

It wasn’t until Clark was back in his hotel room, had showered and was lying down to go to sleep that Clark realized that Bruce hadn’t called him.

 

The next morning Clark woke up floating several inches above his bed, something he hasn’t done in years. He stopped floating the instant he opened his eyes, but at least the bed didn’t collapse underneath him. Clark couldn't contain a yawn as he climbed out of bed and headed over to his laptop to check his email which, as usual, was full of spam. He called the Police to see if they’d gotten any new information on Batman, but could only gets two words from the woman answering the phones: no comment.

 

In an attempt to kill time Clark flew over to Metropolis and did a lengthy patrol… but after three hours there was really nothing for Clark to do but go back to Gotham and keep looking for the right present for Bruce Wayne. This time he headed for one of the few areas of downtown Gotham where you won’t get mugged in broad daylight.

 

He tried to choose between Panda Express and McDonalds for lunch when his phone (finally) rang. He almost dropped the phone in his haste to get it out of his pocket, and then almost snapped it in half as he opened it up. But it was only Lois on the other end. Clark forced himself to be patient and listen as Lois told him everything that had happened in her life in the past few days. When Lois finally hung up to go chase after a lead, Clark checked his voicemail, convinced that Bruce had to have called while he was talking to Lois…but the annoying little mechanical voice informed him that there were no new messages.

 

As he put his phone away Clark glanced around and his eyes fell upon a small store tucked away between two Starbucks as an idea struck him. Bruce Wayne may not have called… but now Clark Kent knew exactly what to buy the billionaire for his birthday.

 

Clark hoped that Bruce would like it… and that he wouldn't mind that the gift is wrapped in the Sunday comics.

 

That night Clark fell asleep on top of the covers, with the TV turned on low, lying on the pillow next to his head… and Bruce still hadn't called.

 

 

 

It felt like he was floating up towards the surface of a deep pool. It seemed to take forever for him to become aware that he actually had a body… but after that discovery, things slid into place rather quickly. He could tell which direction was up and that he was lying in a bed. He could hear the grandfather clock down the hall and, finally, he could open his eyes and quickly close them again against the light.

 

Alfred was sitting next to his bed, a glass of water in his hands, a worried look upon his face. They were in the master bedroom, where Bruce never slept—he had always considered this room as something that belonged to his father, not him.

 

“How long was I out?” Bruce asked as he sat up.

 

“Two days,” said Alfred, holding out a glass of water. “It’s your birthday. Many happy returns.”

 

 _That’s a great way to start a relationship… promise to call and then vanish for two days_. Bruce drank, wincing slightly as the water slid down his sore throat. “I’ve felt these effects before… but this was so much more potent. Some kind of hallucinogen, weaponized in aerosol form.”

 

“You have been hanging out in the wrong clubs, Mister Wayne.” Lucius Fox said, stepping forward to stand next to Alfred.

 

“I called Mr. Fox when your condition worsened after the first day.” Alfred explains.

 

“I analyzed your blood, isolating the receptor compounds and protein-based catalysts,” said Fox, placing one hand on the back of Alfred’s chair.

 

“Am I meant to understand any of that?” Bruce asked, retreating into his playboy image, which drew a long-suffering sigh from both Alfred and Lucius.

 

“No, I just wanted you to know how hard it was,” said Lucius. “Bottom line—I never synthesized an antidote.”

 

 

 

Clark’s dreams were dark and confused. In those dreams he was chasing Batman through the streets of the Narrows, near the walls of Arkham Asylum. He was Clark Kent in these dreams. He couldn't fly and couldn't run faster than a speeding bullet—he was just a normal human, always a few steps behind the man who might be a vigilante and might be a hero.

 

Right before Clark woke up, he followed Batman around a corner into a dead-end alley where, lying in a puddle of rainwater and blood, was Bruce Wayne. He reached out to touch, to find a pulse, but before he could reach him, his alarm went off and he woke up.

 

Clark sat up in bed and flipped open his phone… there were no new messages, but at least Bruce Wayne’s 24th birthday party was only a matter of hours away instead of days. Clark was even somewhat prepared—he’d gotten a present already bought and wrapped up. Clark checked his email while he ate breakfast and then called up the Gotham Police Department to see if they were handing out new information. It turned out there was a press conference scheduled for later that day. Clark hoped it would distract him from thinking about Bruce Wayne… for at least an hour or two.

 

At the press conference Commissioner Loeb was a no-show, so James Gordon had been forced to take his place. Gordon informed the members of the press that the Gotham Police department was “very close to apprehending the vigilante known as Batman,” clearly reading a script and obviously not agreeing with the announcement. The press was polite enough not to laugh.

 

After getting the Batman issue out of the way Gordon moved on to the real reason for the press conference: Carl Finch, Gotham’s District Attorney, had been missing for two days and the Gotham Police had officially declared him “missing, presumed dead.” While the DA’s disappearance and death was certainly interesting, it was not going to be interesting to the readers of _The Daily Planet_ , so Clark walked away from the conference empty handed.

 

Clark spent the rest of the day lying on the hotel room sofa, watching TV, pacing and compulsively checking the time, waiting for Bruce to call.

 

It would be more than a little odd for Clark to just walk up to his front door, so he planned on taking a cab, even though it would cost an arm and a leg to get out to Wayne Manor. However, when Clark stepped out the front door of his hotel, his present tucked under one arm, there was a sleek black car waiting for him, with a young man in a cheap suit standing next to the rear door.

 

“Mister Clark Kent?” He asked, as soon as he saw Clark. When Clark nodded the man reached behind him and opened the door, gesturing for Clark to climb in. “Mister Wayne sent me.”

 

Clark, grateful that he wouldn't have to pay for a cab, slid into the back of the car, wondering if Bruce actually sent the car for him, or if this was Alfred’s doing. His question was answered as the car started to move and Clark’s phone received a text message.

**_I’m sorry. -BW_ **

 

Clark smiled and started to type out a response, only to find himself at a loss for words. Part of him wanted to instantly accept the apology, while another part of him wanted to be angry. He eventually stuck his phone back in his pocket and decided to wait until he got to talk to Bruce in person.

 

By the time Clark Kent arrived at the Manor, Bruce Wayne’s party was in full swing. Hundreds of people were in the main hall of the Manor, chatting and drinking champagne. There was a fourteen-piece orchestra playing classical music for the rich members of Gotham, and a dozen waiters in suits and bowties wandering through the crowd with trays of appetizers.

 

For a second Clark wanted to turn around and run. He didn't fit in with this crowd, not one bit… and he could already feel eyes turning towards him and questions being asked. Before he could try to sneak away, a hand settled on his shoulder and squeezes slightly, a comforting squeeze like his father used to give him. Clark turned to find himself looking at Alfred Pennyworth.

 

“Master Wayne would like to see you,” said Alfred, turning away, clearly wanting the reporter to follow him. The two men moved away from the party, heading down the hallways of Wayne Manor, where Bruce Wayne was standing in front of a mirror, fixing his tie. Bruce was frowning slightly, but the moment he caught sight of Clark, he smiled.

 

“Clark,” he said, forgetting about his tie as he turned to face him. Alfred lingered for a second before vanishing silently.

 

“You didn’t call,” said Clark, trying to sound like he didn't care.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bruce whispered, looking down at the ground. “Something came up. It’s… well it’s complicated.”

 

“Complicated?”

 

“…yeah.” Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair, which managed to make him look better instead of worse. “Complicated.”

 

There was a second of strained silence between the billionaire and the reporter. Then Bruce realized that Clark was holding something wrapped in the comics page of a newspaper.

 

Clark followed Bruce’s gaze and smiled. “I got you a present.” He held it out for the billionaire to take.

 

“You didn’t have to,” said Bruce automatically, as he accepted the present. He looked genuinely happy and Clark had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as Bruce carefully unwrapped his present, treating the wrapping paper like it was a priceless manuscript. Eventually Bruce pulled out a paperback book—American Gods by Neil Gaiman.

 

“I didn’t think you’d have read it,” Clark says nervously.

 

“I haven’t,” said Bruce, turning the book over so that he could look at the summary on the back. “What’s it about?”

 

“Well… the Gods are real, but America is no place for them.”

 

“And what about superheros?” said Bruce. For a second Clark froze, trying to figure out what has given him away, before he realized that Bruce was just asking about the book.

 

“There aren’t any,” said Clark. “At least not in the book…in real life I think it would depend on the city.”

 

“Thank you,” said Bruce, smiling up at Clark as he held the book tenderly, as if it were a priceless first edition. As Clark returned the smile Bruce stepped forward, one hand reaching up to cup the reporter’s face and bringing Clark closer so he could kiss him. Clark allowed his eyes to slip closed as he returned the kiss, one arm reaching out to wrap around Bruce’s waist.

 

“Excuse me Master Bruce, but your guests are starting to ask where their host is.”

 

Bruce and Clark all but jumped apart from each other. Alfred was standing a short but respectful distance away, a small smirk on his face.

 

“Well, I would hate to disappoint my guests,” said Bruce calmly, passing the book to Alfred, who inclined his head politely before leaving the two alone once again. Bruce turned back to Clark and grabbed his hand, pulling him to his side. “Will you give me the pleasure of your company, Mr. Kent?” he asked in a whisper, dropping a kiss on Clark’s cheek, making the reporter blush.

 

“Of course,” Clark stammered. Even as they entered the big hall and Clark released his hand, he stayed by Bruce's side. Clark noted the changes Bruce underwent as he stepped out of the hallway and into the party. He slouched ever so slightly and assumed a dopey smile which didn't reach his eyes, replacing the real smile he’d given Clark.

 

“There’s the birthday boy!” Someone cried over the music. There was a smattering of polite applause from the crowd, as well as some cheers from the more drunk partygoers. Bruce, with Clark at his side, started moving through the crowd, shaking hands as he went. The orchestra, which had been playing some piece of soft classical music stops and fumbles for a second before starting a rendition of “Happy Birthday.”

 

Clark took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter as William Earle emerged from the crowd to shake Bruce’s hand. The man looked bored…but also slightly worried, although Clark couldn't tell what he would be worried about.

 

“Happy birthday, Brucie,” Earle said with a patronizing smile.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Earle. I hope your birthday is happy too…when you have it,” said Bruce. “Now there was something I wanted to ask…what was it?” Bruce made a big show of looking confused and stroking his chin. “Oh, I know. How did the stock offering go?”

 

“Very well,” said William Earle, sounding like he was talking to a toddler. “The price soared.”

 

“Who bought?” said Bruce, tilting his head to one side.

 

“A variety of funds and brokerages,” said Earle with a smirk. “It’s all very technical. The important thing is that our company’s future is secure.”

 

“That’s great!” Bruce smiled and took a sip of his drink. “You have a good time Mr. Earle!”

 

Clark and Bruce wandered around the room for a little while, Bruce occasionally reaching out to take hold of Clark’s hand and squeeze it, which kept bringing a blush to Clark’s face. They were between conversations when Bruce caught sight of someone and leaned over to whisper in Clark’s ear. “I’ve got some business to discuss. Go get some food, I’ll be back in a flash.”

 

“Okay?” said Clark, only to blush as Bruce dropped a sloppy kiss on his cheek, obvisouly one supposed to make people think Bruce was drunk. The kiss drew a soft gasp from a group of ladies nearby, who were wearing so many diamonds in their ears and around their necks that Clark was surprised they could stand up.

 

Clark watched Bruce thread his way through the crowd to meet Lucius Fox, who was leaning against a wall and watching the festivities with the smile of a man who was bored but cheerful.

 

Clark turned towards the nearest table of food. He didn't know what half of the stuff was but nothing looked so ridiculous that Clark wasn’t willing to at least try it… well, there was one thing that looked like a cat regurgitated some meat on to an artichoke leaf, but other than that it all looked appetizing.

 

 

 

 _William Earle is going down_ , Bruce mentally growled as he stepped away from Lucius. He tucked a small box which had three vials of the antidote into one of his jacket pockets. He was struggling not to show his anger over William Earle’s mishandling of his family’s company. _How do you misplace something so dangerous? How do you even approve research on something like that?_ Bruce wondered. Earle Wayne _Enterprises may be responsible for poisoning all of Gotham!_

 

He forced himself to take a deep breath as he looked for Clark. He needed to get Clark and Alfred somewhere quiet so that he could inoculate them. The third vial he would save for Gordon, just in case worse came to worse. He saw Clark at one of the appetizer tables and was about to head towards him when an elderly woman wearing a strapless dark red gown and way too much makeup grabbed his arm.

 

“Bruce!” she gushed, pulling Bruce away from Clark. “There’s someone here you simply have to meet.”

 

“Now now Mrs. Delane—” Bruce began, only to be cut off as the woman practically spun him around to face a man with a shaved head, who was looking away from the two of them, scanning the crowd.

 

“Now am I pronouncing it right…” Mrs. Delane asked the man as he slowly turned around. He was Asian, maybe in his late thirties, and had a familiar looking blue poppy in his front jacket pocket. “Mr. Razzall Gool?”

 

Time stopped for a second as Bruce stared at the man in front of him. Mrs. Delane saw someone else she knew and all but ran away, leaving the two men alone.

 

“You’re not Ra’s Al Ghul,” said Bruce, “I watched him die.”

 

“Ah, but is Ra’s Al Ghul immortal?” someone whispered in Bruce’s ear. Bruce turned, not surprised to see Henri Ducard dressed in an elegant black tuxedo and leaning on a polished ebony cane. The man smiled. “Are his methods supernatural?”

 

“Or are they cheap parlor tricks to conceal your true identity… Ra’s,” said Bruce, his voice turning into a hiss.

 

 _The world doesn’t change._ It felt like it should, like there should be some notable difference now that he knew about the lies… but the orchestra was still playing, his guests were still dancing and drinking and eating. A shiver raced down Bruce’s spine and Ra’s nodded, seeing he had figured out the truth.

 

“Surely a man who spends his night scrambling over the rooftops of Gotham City wouldn’t begrudge me dual identities?” said Ra's, elegantly raising an eyebrow.

 

“I saved you from the fire.”

 

“I warned you about your compassion, did I not?”

 

Bruce scanned the room, mostly to make sure that Clark was far away from Ra’s—and then he saw them, the League of Shadows. He silently berated himself for not noticing them earlier, the grim men who were hovering on the edges of the crowd. The League were so obviously out of place and Bruce recognized quite a few of them from the monastery. They provided a stark contrast to the party’s guests… many of whom were quite tipsy already.

 

“Your quarrel is with me,” said Bruce, turning back to look at Ra’s Al Ghul. “Let these people go.”

 

“You’re welcome to explain the situation to them,” said Ra's, gesturing towards the party goers around them.

 

Bruce bit back a response and turned away from Ra’s to fire off a text message to Clark, hoping he would answer his phone. Then he grabbed a drink from a passing waiter, quickly drinking a mouthful before splashing the rest onto himself.

 

 

 

**_Get out now. Find Alfred._ **

 

Clark felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out, wondering who was calling… he looked down at his phone in confusion for a second, before he started to look for Bruce. He saw him at the other side of the room, stalking away from an older man with graying hair and a elegant cane. Bruce shoved his phone into his pocket and grabbed a drink from a passing waiter… and something in the determined, resigned look on Bruce’ face made Clark obey Bruce’s instructions.

 

A quick look round with his x-ray vision revealed that Alfred was outside. In a matter of seconds Clark made his way out of the party and walked over to the butler.

 

“Can I help you Mister Kent?” said Alfred politely. Instead of answering, Clark handed the butler his phone.

 

Bruce Wayne’s guests, as well as the orchestra and the hired help, were streaming out of the mansion. Clark could hear scattered groups complaining about Bruce Wayne, several of them muttering about how far the apple had fallen from the tree, while others were remarking how it wasn’t surprising that Wayne had turned into alcoholic.

 

“What’s happening?” Clark asked in a whisper as Alfred handed him back the phone.

 

“I don’t know,” said Alfred, as the two men moved away from the crowd to stay out of sight.

 

As the last of the guests departed, the main doors of the mansion opened and a group of men in black suits stepped out. The moment the doors open Clark realized that he could smell blood and gasoline coming from inside the Manor. A chill ran down his spine as he tried to figure out how to tell Alfred without revealing his secret… then he realized that the leader of the group was the same grey haired man that Bruce had been talking to.

 

“No one comes out,” said to man to his goons. “Make sure.”

 

The group of men split up, several heading back inside, the rest fanning out to stand guard at the doors of the manor. In seconds smoke started to pour out of the mansion and the widows were glowing red. The men had set fire to Wayne Manor and their leader was standing in front of the ancient building, as if he couldn't see the flames.

 

“We would have been magnificent together,” the man muttered, before turning away from the burning Manor and climbing into a waiting black van.

 

Clark pulled out his phone and dialed 911, quickly informing the operator that Wayne Manor was burning. He and Alfred watched the van move away from the house before moving forward, almost at the same time. Alfred led Clark around one side of the house to a small door hidden beneath ivy, which the group of men obviously hadn't discovered.

 

Alfred and Clark snuck inside the mansion and, even though he was invulnerable, Clark was taken aback by the heat. It was as if he had run full speed into a wall he couldn't destroy. The air was sucked from his lungs and he didn't know how Alfred could possibly cope with the heat and smoke. There was a solid wall of flame in front of them, but somehow the butler kept moving forward.

 

“Master Bruce!” Alfred called out, the roar and crackle of the fire turning his voice into a hoarse whisper.

 

Despite Clark’s extra senses, he and Alfred found Bruce at the same time. He was lying on the floor, trapped underneath a heavy oak beam. Without thinking Clark dashed forward and tossed the beam aside, gathering Bruce into his arms and scanning him for injuries.

 

“Bruce?” Clark whispered, shaking the man slightly as Alfred made his way to their side.

 

“…Clark?” Bruce coughed, his eyelids fluttering. Clark helped him up, Bruce swaying slightly as he tried to stand on his own, only to have Clark step closer to support him.

 

“We need to get out!” Clark yelled to Alfred. Behind him another beam fell, blocking them from the way they'd came in.

 

“This way,” said Alfred, as Clark followed, half-carrying Bruce towards what must have been a study. There were several bookshelves, all of which were now on fire, and a piano in a corner of the room. The Wayne Family Butler hit four notes on the piano and a nearby mirror swung forward, revealing a secret passage.

 

The passage led to an elevator, which the three men all but collapsed on to. Alfred pressed a button and the ancient machine started to descend. The air started to cool as the elevator went further and further down, until Alfred and Bruce could breathe normally again. The moment the elevator reached the bottom and came to a stop, there was a deafening crash from above. Fragments of dirt and stone rained down upon them, and Clark realized that the house must have collapsed.

 

“What have I done?” Bruce whispered, tears in his eyes. “Everything my family… everything my father built.”

 

“The Wayne legacy is more than bricks and mortar, sir,” said Alfred, extending a hand to Bruce, who gratefully took it. When the three men reached the ground, they were standing in what appeared to be a large cave. There was a single light illuminating the area right next to the elevator.

 

“I thought I could help Gotham.” Bruce whispered. “But I’ve failed.”

 

“Why do we fall sir?” Alfred asked as he stepped away from Bruce and Clark to get to a lightswitch.

 

 “So we can learn to pick ourselves up again,” said Bruce, smiling. “Still haven’t given up on me?”

 

“Never, sir.” Alfred flipped the lights on. Although Bruce seemed to be able to stand on his own, Clark stayed by his side as he walked away from the elevator and into the cave. The lights revealed a vast, naturally formed space, partially filled with various pieces of equipment, including something black that resembled both a car and a tank.

 

“What is this?” said Clark.

 

“The Batcave,” said Alfred with a perfectly straight face, as Bruce headed to a large wooden closet which, when opened, revealed the armour of Batman’s outfit.

 

“You’re Batman,” Clark whispered as Bruce started to put on the suit. “Those men, who were they?”

 

“The League of Shadows,” said Bruce as he tugged on his gloves. “They’re going to poison Gotham.”

 

“And you’re going to try and stop them,” Clark realized. “Bruce—”

 

Clark stepped forward, raising one hand to unbutton his shirt and reveal his secret, but before he could say anything Batman stepped forward and silenced him with a kiss. Batman’s cowl and the mask that covered his nose bumped uncomfortably into Clark’s cheek, but the kiss managed to wipe his mind of everything he’d planned on saying.

 

“I… I think I love you.” Bruce whispered.

 

“I think I love you too,” said Clark. For some reason the word “think” didn't take anything away from Bruce’s confession.

 

In the blink of an eye Bruce was gone, replaced by Batman, who climbed into the tank and sent the bats swarming out of the cave as he sped off into the night.

 

Alfred cleared his throat. “There is an alternative exit, which comes up into the greenhouses. The firefighters should be here soon…”

 

“Alfred—” Clark started to say.

 

“Mister Kent, I understand that you and Bruce are more alike then he knows. I can make an educated guess based upon your city of origin.” Alfred smiled as Clark stared at him.

 

“Wh—how?” Clark unbuttoned his shirt, revealing the crest of the House of El.

 

“You rather lost control of your disguise when Master Bruce was trapped under the beam,” said Alfred, taking Clark’s suit from his hands and expertly folding it.

 

 

“Thank you, Alfred,” said Clark with a smile. He handed his glasses to the butler before rising into the air and following after the path of Batman’s tank.

 

 

 

_Gordon will succeed. Gordon has to succeed. If the League of Shadows manages to hit the whole city with the toxin… then there’ll be no way to keep Gotham from tearing itself apart in mass panic._

 

_Ra’s Al Ghul believes that he knows how I think. He will be prepared for me to have survived the fire, he will be prepared for me to attempt to stop him… but he won’t be prepared for me to have backup and he won’t be prepared for me to destroy something my father built. All of his resources will be focused on protecting the microwave transmitter and he will expect me to come alone. Ra’s Al Ghul will be waiting for me… and it wouldn’t be polite to keep my old teacher waiting._

 

 

The Narrows was tearing itself apart. The line between sanity and insanity had been erased, as escaped inmates of Arkham Asylum roamed the streets with equally insane members of the public. Those who had guns were firing them—at thin air and at other people, while those without guns all but tore the city apart with their bare hands. It looked like a job for Superman… and Batman. Clark zipped around, removing guns and knives from people’s hands and tossing them into the river. The smoke driving all the people in the Narrows crazy didn't effect Clark, but he breathed as little as possible, just in case.

 

Superman didn't think any of the people he was saving would actually remember seeing him. He hoped that those poor souls who were screaming in terror would forget everything that happened tonight. Clark hoped that Bruce would use the antidote he gave Alfred…he had a feeling that Bruce Wayne’s mind wasn't a nice place to be on a good day. But most of all, Superman hoped that Bruce knew what he was doing and that the man wouldn't get himself killed before they had a chance to figure out how Superman/Clark and Batman/Bruce would fit together.

 

He hadn’t seen Batman yet… and that was starting to worry him. So he flew up until he could see most of Gotham laid out below him like Christmas lights, and look for Batman’s car, which Clark has mentally named ‘the Batmobile'. When he did locate the tank it was heading towards Wayne Tower and being driven by James Gordon, who was following the monorail route. A short distance behind the Batmobile a train was racing along the tracks…and as it passed over the streets below, fire hydrants exploded, the water turning into steam the moment it hit the air.

 

Clark glanced inside the train car, where he saw Batman and the grey-haired man who had ordered Wayne Manor destroyed. The two were locked in combat, with the man’s hands wrapped around Batman’s throat. Both men were battered and bleeding, a broken sword lying a short distance away, tears in Bruce’s cape.

 

“Don’t be afraid Bruce. You’re just an ordinary man in a cape…” the man hissed as he held Bruce down. “That’s why you can’t fight injustice and that’s why you can’t stop this train.”

 

“Who said anything about stopping it?” said Bruce.

 

On the street below two missiles shot from the batmobile, destroying one of the supports of the monorail. The support crumbled and the monorail tracks smashed down into the street. The train car shook, throwing the man off Bruce, who instantly smashed his right fist into the man’s face. The two men separated.

 

“Have you finally learned to do what is necessary?”

 

“I won’t kill you,” said Bruce. “But I don’t have to save you.”

 

The car shook and tumbled forward, propelled by its momentum but unable to travel straight. The sudden movement threw both Bruce and Ra's to their knees, Ra's towards the front of the train as it started to go vertical.

 

Superman shot forward, destroying the back door of the monorail car as he smashed through the metal like it was made of paper. In a matter of seconds he grabbed Batman and shot back up into the sky. Beneath him the two monorail cars derailed, flying in midair for a second before smashing into the road below. Asphalt shattered and raised a cloud of dust and debris as the explosion consumed the street.

 

Superman was high enough to float high above Gotham, with Batman still in his arms. Below them, sections of the Narrows were still burning, but the fog dispersed as the sun brightened the eastern sky.  As usual, Superman was unharmed, while Batman had clearly had one hell of a night. His cowl was cracked, several parts of his cape were destroyed, and there was a long thin cut on his cheek. A quick x-ray vision scan revealed that at least he had no broken bones.

 

“You’re… you’re Superman!” Bruce blurted, staring at Clark with a mix of confusion, surprise and annoyance.

 

“What gave it away, the suit or the flying?” Clark teased. There were a million things he wants to say and a million more things that he really needs to say, but right now he was content that they were both alive, unharmed and as sane as heroes can be.

 

Without hesitating Clark pressed his lips against Bruce’s. Bruce’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and a gloved hand tangled in Clark’s hair. A faint smell of smoke and toxin fog hung around the two of them, and Bruce’s lips tasted faintly of blood. It wasn't their first kiss, or technically the best kiss that Clark had ever had/experienced… but somehow it was perfect, even if Bruce started to shiver, from the wind and the events of the night.

 

Clark pulled back to let Bruce breathe. For a second the two just looked at each other, then Batman shook his head.

“How the hell do glasses keep people from finding out who you are?” he said.

“Honestly?” Superman chuckled as he headed down to the batmobile. “I have no idea.”

 

 


End file.
